Paul turned back to Ziggy. “She cares more about her job than she does our marriage.”
My body sunk into the couch, stunned. “How can you say that?”
“Honey, please,” Paul scoffed, folding his arms across his chest.
I stared at the floor. “We’re here, aren’t we?” My shoulders caved. Deep down, I knew he was right. My job had been a point of contention since we’d moved to California. I did travel too much and worked too many hours—by choice. I’d dry my hair in the car just to get to work early. When he’d called me at my desk around five thirty to ask me when I was coming home, I’d say, “In about fifteen minutes.” We’d have the same conversation two more times, him calling back after thirty minutes and yelling, “Honey!” as soon as I’d pick up the phone at my desk, still typing away on email. Whenever I’d call him on my way home and he’d start to talk about his day, my mind immediately raced back to the office and another to-do list item for tomorrow. I’d rarely retain more than five of his words in any phone conversation. Work was my only source of accomplishment; I couldn’t turn it off. Approving event itineraries and merchandising materials made me feel productive and empowered. At home, I could do nothing right.
I took a deep breath. “We both need to try harder.” My voice quivered. Paul shouldered the load of running the household, but we had way more problems than my job. I’d also stopped lighting up for him—just like Tina Fey in Date Night. I wore baggy clothes to cover my thick hips. When I got home from work, I’d collapse into a dining room chair and eat the dull dinner he’d cooked. “Relationships are about give and take.” I squeezed my sweaty hands. “You give, you get something.” I looked at his face, then my fleshy knuckles.
I hadn’t talked about my feelings since the first month we’d dated. It felt like the vice around my chest was loosening for the first time in years. “I think we’ve stopped giving ourselves to each other. Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like I’m getting what I need and vice versa?” I looked over at Paul. It was also the point in our hotel-room argument when I’d asked him if his ex-wife had ever told him she needed more. I decided not to bring up his first marriage to his high school sweetheart back in South Carolina. If I said her name, he’d snip at me for a week. Talking about her was never in my best interest.
“I’m not asking for much.” Those were the same words I’d pleaded in the New York hotel room. “I hug you, I kiss you, I tell you I love you all the time.” I stared at my hands, reflecting on my never-ending yearning for affection from men who didn’t reciprocate: my grandpa, my dad, Chris, Matthew, Tyler and Paul.
“I don’t even think he finds me attractive anymore,” I sighed, shaking my head. I turned toward Paul, and more hidden feelings leapt into my throat, hell-bent on escaping through words I’d never spoken. “You never tell me I’m pretty. I know you said you’re working on it, but it seems so, well, forced.” My eyes fixed on his. I’d gained fifteen pounds within a month of dating Paul. I’d started eating what he liked to eat: Toaster Strudels, fried sausage, Totino’s frozen pizza, creamed spinach, macaroni and cheese and Phish Food ice cream. My body was a pear once again, but with more dimples and bumps thanks to the looming 3-0. I needed to be assured that he still found me attractive. After my nagging, Paul had finally gotten to the point where he told me I looked “nice,” which made me feel more like a grandma’s quilt than a twenty-nine-year-old wife. We hadn’t had sex since that night at the New York hotel room, nearly a month before. Sex with Paul was “just fine.” That was the same response he always gave to the question, “How was your day?” He had the right “equipment” downstairs and a nice body, but sleeping with Paul was all about the physical—no spiritual, no emotion. I’d spent a decade placing too much weight on sexual chemistry with boyfriends, so I married a man who didn’t push all my buttons. We both had orgasms, which I’d considered to be the highest form of intimacy for years. We are better off than most couples. I’d brainwashed myself into believing that sex pretty much stopped after marriage and would disappear once we had kids. I was actually looking forward to life without sex.
Ziggy crooked her neck at Paul. He popped his knuckles. I shot him a death stare and shivered. He knew I hated that habit almost as much as he hated me biting my fingernails.
My head shot toward him, as we drove off in his Jeep Cherokee. “Did you hear the first thing you said in there?”
“That came out wrong.” He stared out the windshield. “It was a weird situation.”
“Yeah, but people have instincts,” I replied, talking to the side of his face. “I’m a tool? If that was the first thing that popped into your head, it means something.”
We didn’t talk the rest of the way home. I bit my fingernails, waiting for him to scold me. I gazed out the window, counting the rolling hills of the Petaluma Gap, wondering if our marriage would self-destruct in T-minus ten minutes.
I hopped onto a cherry barstool in downtown Cincinnati, looking forward to treating myself to a drink after a long day pouring wine at the Cincinnati International Wine Festival. The bar, once a stately brick bank, had been transformed into a cocktail lounge with live jazz and a Speakeasy vibe. Huge vaults along one wall had been converted to wine, spirits and cigar cellars. Roger, a co-worker who’d just relocated with the winery to California from Canada, joined me at a high-top table. A man in a tuxedo played a piano in the corner. I swayed to the music and ordered a Rosemount Shiraz from the leather-bound menu. I was back living my other life—that world of a traveling wine marketer where I always felt complete.
As soon as our drinks were delivered, a young woman who worked for our local wine distributor stopped by the table to thank us for flying in to support their state’s largest wine tasting. Roger, who also worked in the marketing department, immediately stepped off his barstool and pulled out a chair for her. Warm, fuzzy feelings poured into my chest. It was as if someone had just set a box filled with puppies on the table. The woman said she couldn’t stay, and buzzed toward the door.
I swirled my glass of Australian wine on the marble tabletop. “I wish my husband did that.” I thought of the door slamming in my face at Morton’s in New York. Two weeks had crept by since the couple’s workshop with Paul.
“I was raised to treat all women like that,” he replied matter-of-factly. “It comes naturally. All women should be respected. Put on a pedestal.” My blue eyes flew to his. He wore a dark gray suit and striped tie and had the debonair look of Pierce Brosnan with the face of Hugh Grant. His drink of choice was Dewars on the rocks. The man was classy from brain to toe.
I shook my head and swirled my wine glass. “Wait until you get married someday. Relationships aren’t that easy.” I took a long sip, letting the juicy flavors of black pepper and blackberry coat my mouth. I gripped the stem of my glass firmly, keeping my eyes fixed on the inky wine. “It’s not a fairytale like we want it to be when we’re young. It’s friendship, partnership, working together, compromising.” I took a deep breath. “It’s a lot of work.” My straight hair brushed across the shoulders of my INC suit jacket. I’d recently cut my hair the shortest it had been since my senior year of school—without consulting with Paul in advance—and he was furious.
Roger placed his index finger on the rim of his rocks glass, then moved it slowly around the entire circumference. “Marriage should be the easiest thing in your life, not the hardest thing.”
I grabbed my wine glass and took a long sip, soaking in every word. Easiest? The man was smoking crack. He pressed both palms against the edge of the table and took a deep breath.
“What about romance, passion and fun?” he asked. “You didn’t mention any of those things.” My eyes met his, then quickly returned to my wine glass. I felt as exposed as a lingerie model at a photo shoot.
“I just wish he’d tell me I’m beautiful.” I gazed into the dark hue of my Shiraz. The beat of my heart rang out in my ears. Ideas sprinted through my head faster than Usain Bolt. I felt so alive, having an u
nfiltered conversation about relationships with a guy.
Roger sat back in his chair and pressed both palms against the edge of the table. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” His eyes fixed on my face. “Your husband doesn’t tell you you’re beautiful?” He laced his hands around the back of his head.
My head nodded over the wine glass. “Would you excuse me?” I darted into the bathroom.
I stood over the sink, staring at my face in the mirror. His every word echoed in my head, sending pulses of adrenaline into my bloodstream. My entire body felt hooked up to jumper cables. Maybe I am not asking for too much. Maybe I can have it all. Talking to others about my feelings was helping me find answers. I let the enlightenment of Roger’s little talk flush through me. My eyes looked brighter, my chin stronger. The forehead scar that had bugged me since grade school didn’t seem so noticeable. A transformation was occurring. I fished my raisin lipstick from my purse and smoothed it on, listening to the muffled jazz outside the door. Acting on my new therapist’s advice—verbalize versus internalize—had opened a floodgate of feelings inside me. Pieces of the puzzle were fusing in my head. Roger and I were having this conversation for a reason, and the reason was not because I was stupid and made bad decisions.
When I returned to our table, Roger hopped up and pulled out my chair. I blushed. A fresh bottle of Evian and another glass of red wine were sitting in front of my seat. “They were out of Shiraz, so I ordered you a Malbec from Argentina.” He helped me into my chair. “I hope that’s okay.” I flashed him a big grin. Roger knew nothing of my life in Miami or my love of Malbec. He was reading my mind.
I lifted the glass and inhaled. The bouquet of earthy plums and blackberries filled my nose. “Paul wouldn’t be able to guess what this is.” A smirk crossed my lips.
A saxophone began wailing along with the dancing piano melody. The crowded tables around us began to empty. Roger and I leaned across the cocktail table, so we didn’t have to yell over the music. A votive candle flickered on our table, making our faces glow. I spilled my guts about the dinner at Morton’s, the argument in our hotel room afterward and my conflicted feelings about my future. My thirtieth birthday was just two weeks away. I twirled my hair and bit my fingernails between confessions. Roger listened intently, nodding his head when he agreed, shaking it when he was shocked.
His fingers bridged the rim of his glass. “How do your parents feel about him?”
“He’s never really gotten along with anyone from my family,” I replied. “Honestly, that’s one of the things that attracted me to him. He’s totally different from them. He’s confident. He takes charge. He speaks his mind. I’ve always been trying to become a stronger person than I was ten years ago.” I told Roger how Paul took control of every meeting involving the settlement of my dad’s estate in his stern, all-business tone, and had made my brother so mad, he’d run out the door. Paul never made small talk with my mom when she called on Sundays; not that she made much effort, either.
“It honestly didn’t bother you that he didn’t get along with your family?” Roger leaned back on his barstool. “That would be so hard for me. I’m really close to my parents.” He looked down into his glass of Dewars.
I wish I could say the same. I sipped my wine slowly, letting the ripe berry flavors coat my tongue. “It didn’t bother me at first. When I was in college, I wanted to escape the Midwestern lifestyle. I didn’t have that desire to spend my winters sitting in front of a TV wearing long johns, watching the local news.” My cousin had never been on an airplane before he flew to our wedding and he hadn’t been on one since. Whenever Mom called to tell me someone back home was pregnant with another illegitimate baby and going on welfare, Paul would roll his eyes and laugh. “But lately, I’m tired of the jokes and put-downs. He says things like ‘I can’t believe you have the same genes as them’ and ‘Your family doesn’t have a clue.’” Paul had even called my stepdad a drunk to his face. Maybe he did drink too much from time to time, but he’s a great guy. He’s caring, entrepreneurial and takes better care of my mom than my dad ever did. I laced my fingers and raised my eyes to meet Roger’s. “The older I get, I realize my upbringing is part of who I am. It helped me grow into the person I’ve become. And I’m proud of who I am today. I wouldn’t trade my childhood with anyone.” I looked Roger in the eye with strength and confidence, then raised my wine glass in the air—Harley Aberle, the girl from Podunk named after a motorcycle, promoting fine wines for a living. I’d come a long way. Roger nodded and took a long sip of Dewars. I watched the ice cubes touch his lips. I proceeded to tell Roger about my childhood, the moves, my father’s suicide, then my therapy sessions. He rocked back and forth in his chair, inhaling and exhaling.
“He seemed like he’d be a great husband when I was twenty-four.” I recounted Paul’s attributes and my aunt’s infamous, pre-wedding advice. I talked about kissing Fernando, our intense connection on all levels and how he ran away. “I married my best friend because all the magic fades away.” I stared into the deep, purple wine in the glass. My rationale for choosing a husband suddenly felt irrational. Finally.
Roger shook his head, then pressed both palms against the tabletop. “You settled.” His blue eyes anchored to mine. “I’m sorry to be so frank with you, but you settled for less than you deserve. Life is too short to be with someone who doesn’t make you so happy, you can’t wait to see him everyday.” His tie bounced around his chest while he spoke with his hands.
My knees began shaking under the table. My eyes darted from his face to the piano player across the room. Dive-bomber. Direct hit. His words triggered a flashback. Until that moment, I’d forgotten that I’d called my old friend Danielle three months before my wedding, freaked out about the roller coaster of emotions. “You’re settling,” she’d said in her curtly way. “Trust me. I’ve been engaged before and got out before it was too late. Call it off.” She was the only person who’d been straight up with me about my decision to marry Paul. She didn’t RSVP for the wedding. I’d buried her statement in the deepest corner of my mind like a bad secret. We didn’t speak again until three years ago, when she found me on Facebook.
“I want to tell you a story,” Roger said, filling the uncomfortable silence. “I was an expert at the art of settling for years.” He leaned back in the chair and loosened his necktie. “It all started with one girl.” His index finger wagged above his rocks glass. Roger proceeded to tell me about a girl he’d met at University of California at San Diego who had rocked his world. His face lit up as he talked about meeting her at a college bar, their first kiss, the amazing sex, the way they could read each other’s minds. My head nodded until my neck hurt. My mind flew to the dance floor with Fernando.
“I felt that once,” I interrupted, my fingers gripping the edge of the marble table. “God, I miss that feeling.” Roger smiled, then continued. Their relationship had lasted four years. The passion never stopped. She dreamed of working in Thailand; he wanted to live in California near his family. “We just found ourselves at a crossroads, and we couldn’t go down the same path.” He ran his fingers through his light-brown hair. I looked into his sad eyes and wanted to hug him until he smiled again.
“I was devastated,” he said. “A part of me died. But now I know I cannot get involved with a woman unless I feel that same level of connection.” His shook his rocks glass until the ice cubes jingled. “My soulmate is out there somewhere. We’ll find each other someday.” He stared into the votive. Roger had not had a serious girlfriend for six years.
I leaned over the table. “How did you move on?”
His firm face flickered in the candlelight. “That relationship taught me more about benchmarking than any job. The benchmark has been defined for the kind of woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. End of story.” He threw back a gulp of Dewars. My eyes swelled with astonishment. A dating benchmark? Damn, I could have used one of those about forty times. I collapsed against the back of my chair and sipped the s
mooth wine.
“I called Fernando the first week of January.” The words blurted from my lips. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him for seven years.” My confession spilled across the table like a shattered bottle of booze. I told Roger about the phone call I’d made to Fernando’s office six week’s prior. Getting closure with Fernando was supposed to unclog my heart valves, unclutter my brain. If I could close the door on our love, the daydreams about how Earth-shaking good it felt to kiss him would end. I could finally unlock the hidden passion between Paul and me. But deep down, I’d always wondered if Fernando might be thinking about me and regretting our break-up. Just like Adele’s theory in “Someone Like You,” I hoped he’d heard my voice and realize it wasn’t over. Fernando was so aloof, I felt like a telemarketer making my first cold call. The small talk was so small, I’d needed a microscope. Fernando and Alessandra were expecting their first child, a boy, in just eight weeks. He’d hardly remembered the abrupt end to our relationship! “Oh, yeah. We were crazy kids back then,” he’d said with a smug laugh. But I didn’t have the urge to smack him upside the head with a bottle of Pinot Grigio.
I looked Roger in the eye. “When I hung up the phone, I wasn’t sad. I was happy. I was hopeful.” I gripped my wine glass. Speaking to Fernando had given me a newfound hope that my heart was no longer chained to his, and my life could truly move on. But I still felt like there was a rock in my stomach every time I walked into my house after work and kissed Paul.
THE EXES IN MY IPOD: A Playlist of the Men Who Rocked Me to Wine Country Page 30
